Dangerous Game
by Flaignhan
Summary: Avoid relationships, avoid murder. It's simple, really.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Likingthistoomuch suggested something on tumblr, and this is 300% not it. But the suggestion set off a chain reaction, which, nearly a week later, has resulted in this. It's in two parts. Hope you like it?

* * *

 **Dangerous Game**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

"I like boats."

Molly nods, in way which she hopes makes it look like she's vaguely interested in this particular golden nugget of conversation.

"Any particular type of boat?" Molly asks, searching her mind for anything she might be able to contribute. Phil - according to his name tag - is sweaty from nerves, his poorly chosen blue shirt giving him away with dark circles spreading from his arm pits, and halfway down his chest.

She's not sure moob-sweat will get him anywhere this evening, and she feels a stab of pity for him, as he stutters over his words.

"I like remote control ones," he tells her. "You know, take them over the park and put them in the ponds and that."

"That's a really lovely hobby," Molly says kindly. "Do you make them yourself?"

"Oh no," Phil says, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "No, not at all. I buy mine, from specialist dealers!"

Molly knows the kind of boats he's talking about, has seen them in ponds in parks, has seen twelve year olds playing with the ones they've built with their dads, and she's quite sure that these specialist dealers are taking Phil for a ride.

"What d'you do when you're not working?" He's shouting slightly, and Molly thinks this is, again, from the nerves. All the same it's a little alarming, and draws the attention of the pairs on either side of her.

She casts her mind around for an answer, and decides to go for something safe. "I hang out with my friends," she tells him, and he gives a smile of recognition, as though he's heard of that sort of thing before.

The buzzer sounds, and while chair legs scrape against the parquet floor, Molly downs half a glass of wine.

* * *

"Yeaaah, I'm only here 'cause a friend dragged me along. I don't usually go to this sort of thing." Xander (Molly would bet her life savings that his parents call him 'Alex') looks around, and gives a loud, dismissive sniff, before turning his attention back to Molly.

"What is it you do, exactly?" he demands, his dark eyebrows pinched together, his eyes looking down his thin pointy nose at her.

"I'm a pathologist," she replies, despite having half a mind to make up some ludicrous occupation to take her mind of this ghastly three minutes. She could be anything she wanted - sky diver, a professor, entrepreneur, even contract killer might, for a moment, be an appealing career path.

Xander pulls a face. "Pathologist? Sounds frightful. I'm in finance myself." Naturally he can't bear to talk about anyone else for longer than a few seconds.

"Oh right," Molly says. "Sounds utterly dull."

There is a fleeting moment where Molly is treated to Xander's utterly appalled expression, before the buzzer sounds once more, and he storms off, to meet a different victim.

Molly takes another sip of her wine, and vows never to go speed dating again, no matter what the stakes may be.

* * *

"D'you get to do a lot of murders?" Gary asks, with only a meagre attempt at hiding his grin.

"Well..." Molly begins slowly. She doesn't know exactly how much to tell him, but she gives him the benefit of the doubt. At least he's showing an interest, if perhaps, a little too much.

"Is that a yes?" Gary's grin stretches a little wider, and Molly can't help but find it off-putting.

"Post-mortems tend to happen when a person dies suddenly," Molly explains. "Or in suspicious circumstances, so yeah, could be murder, but also, you know drug overdoses, natural causes...it's not exactly CSI London."

"Oh I love that show," Gary says, smiling fondly. Something about him isn't quite in the moment. It's as though he's elsewhere, controlling his double remotely while he occupies himself with something far more entertaining.

"I'm sorry?"

"CSI," he says, leaning forward, both hands clasped in front of him. "D'you watch it? You should you know. It's brilliant, the things they can do with science."

Molly sees enough corpses during the day without coming home and putting more of them on her telly. She's caught glimpses of it before, with its fictional technology and pseudo-science, but she doesn't spoil it for him. She's not that mean.

"I don't really get much time for telly," she tells him. "Shift work and everything, makes it hard to stay on top of these things."

"That's a shame," Gary replies, and he sounds genuinely upset by it. "You're missing out on loads!"

Molly smiles, and at the moment, as if the speed dating angels had sensed she was getting to the end of her tether, the buzzer sounds, and Gary waves her farewell before moving on.

Her wine glass is empty, and she looks longingly towards the bar. No angel appears to top her up, and she supposes she might need to pray harder.

* * *

"Are you local?" Tony's arms are folded over his chest, and he leans back in his chair, his legs spread wide as though he's awaiting a gynaecologist. Molly pushes that particular mental image from her head, and answers his question.

"Yeah, not too far," she tells him. "You?"

"Yeah, I rent with a few mates up in Archway," he says, nodding his head constantly, as though it's the only way he can get the words out. "No chance of buying in this city!"

It's mundane conversation, but it's probably a small step up from CSI and remote control boats. At least, she thinks it is.

"What about you? D'you live with friends? Group of girlies all together?" he lets out a bark of laughter that feels like it cracks the room in half, and Molly waits for the volume of conversation to increase again before she answers.

"It's just me," she says, looking down at her hands. She hates this part of the conversation. "I've got a place near Regent's Park."

Tony's eyes widen and he leans forward, as if to get a better look at her. "Blimey!" For some reason, he's beaming at her. "Place of your own near Regent's Park! Lucky you, eh?"

Molly bites down on her lip to prevent her from snapping anything back at him.

"Must be nice," he says, settling back into his chair. "Living the life of luxury and all that."

It's no good. She can't not say anything.

"Luck and circumstance are rarely the same thing," Molly says coldly. She cannot abide assumptions about her living situation. She lost a dad at twenty and was left with enough for a deposit on a flat. It's not much of a swap. She worked harder than anybody she knew at school, in college, at uni, and beyond, in order to get where she is today. She would trade it all to bring her dad back, but failing that, she will never let anyone get away with suggesting that she's simply _lucky_. Her gaze is hard, and she doesn't care, because she'll let a lot of things slide, but not that.

Never that.

The buzzer sounds again, and Tony scuttles away without another word.

She really needs another glass of wine.

* * *

"So there are two penguins, walking across an iceberg," Olu tells her, his easy smile helping to balance out her sour mood after her run in with Tony.

"Right..." Molly says, unable to keep the smile from her own face. Something about his smile is contagious, and she finds she doesn't mind his company so much.

"And the first penguin says to the second penguin, 'Hey! You look like you're wearing a tuxedo!'." His eyes are bright, and maybe he's had a few drinks himself, maybe, like Molly, he needed a bit of Dutch courage before throwing himself into the lion's den.

"The second penguin," he continues, "turns to the first, and says, 'Well, maybe I am!'."

Molly lets out her obligatory laugh, but it doesn't feel too forced. Olu is, perhaps, the highlight of a rather dreadful evening.

"Go on then," he says, giving her hand a gentle nudge with his own. "What's your joke?"

"Okay," she says, casting her mind around for something moderately funny. "All right. What's the difference between a physician, a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a pathologist?"

"I don't know," Olu says, humouring her. "What _is_ the difference between a physician, a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a pathologist?"

Molly takes a deep breath, hoping against hope that she gets the punchline right. "Well," she says, "the _physician_ knows everything and does nothing. The _surgeon_ knows nothing and does everything. The _psychiatrist_ knows nothing and does nothing, and the _pathologist_ knows everything, but always a week too late!"

It takes a moment for Olu to smile, and there's a sinking feeling in Molly's chest.

"It's long, isn't it?" she says apologetically. "It's long and it's...niche."

"No, it's...it's good. It's clever," Olu says, but Molly gets the impression he's being generous.

The buzzer sounds, and she's almost sorry to see him go.

* * *

"Any unusual behaviour yet?" Sherlock's elbows are resting on the table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, fingers steepled. His name tag reads 'Scott' - a name which is dotted around memories of medical records, passports, and driving licences. And, of course, his death certificate.

"There was one weirdo who was a bit keen on murder," she tells him. She glances towards Gary, who is now delighting someone else - a blonde, who looks terribly bored.

"Nothing wrong with a healthy interest in murder," Sherlock says, and his words are delicate, as though she's very close to offending him.

"I didn't mean..." Without thinking, she takes his hand, and gives it a squeeze. She regrets it instantly, but her regret is halted when he doesn't pull away as if he's been burned. She realises that it's probably just a show for their cover; a couple of speed daters who might just be having a half decent chat. She moves her hand away, covering the movement by picking up her wine glass. It's halfway to her mouth before she remembers it's empty, and her heart sinks as she places it back on the table.

"I know, I'm just teasing," he says, looking into the mirrored wall behind Molly's head, his eyes searching the room. He looks at her briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips, before his eyes return to the mirror. "It's hardly a good chat up line, is it?"

"Bet you'd use it," Molly says slyly. She's not sure he's ever used a chat up line in his life, even when he's been undercover. She wonders if he'd even know what one is.

"Actually, I've had two offers of intercourse, without mentioning any murder at all." He says this all in a very matter of fact tone, as if reporting the findings of an experiment. He's trying very hard to appear unaffected, and it's almost funny, but she can't help the small stab of jealousy that hits her just below the ribs.

Molly tries to ignore it, but she can't prevent herself from asking, "Who?"

Sherlock breaks his gaze away from the mirror again, his eyes on hers as he reevaluates her. He does this, every so often, sometimes even two or three times a week when he'll update his little file on her, and she can see the gears of his brain whirring away behind his eyes.

"What?" She laughs, because really, it is a perfectly reasonable question. "You must have used your three minutes well!"

Sherlock's eyes are on the mirror again, but he decides to answer her question. "A redhead with a fresh navel piercing -"

"She _showed you_ her belly button?"

"No, she just kept putting her hand on it whenever she fidgeted. Infection brewing." He glances back down at her to see that she's taken in his explanation, that she's learning. She thinks he might consider any time together wasted if neither of them learns something new.

"Right, and the other one?" Molly asks.

"Brunette. Just got back from ten days in the Algarve."

"Of course," she says, not bothering to ask how he knows. "Why do I feel like the women here are a touch more respectable than the men? Even, _with_ two offers of sex." She has to be honest, she can't blame them for trying, especially if he was pretending to be normal, or nice, or flirty. She can't blame them at all.

"Maybe because one of the men is potentially a murderer?"

A shiver passes over Molly. "Don't, Sherlock."

He only has time to wink at her as the buzzer sounds, and he moves on to the next table. She can see him in her peripheral vision while Barry is chattering away about his interest in silent films. Sherlock's very convincing false smile is distracting, his flirtatious demeanour downright disturbing, while his unwavering attention elicits a flash of envy from Molly.

She definitely needs more wine.

By the time she reaches the bar, Sherlock is occupied with a chatty blonde, who places a hand, with its neatly manicured scarlet nails, on his forearm while she laughs at something he's said. Molly grits her teeth and gets the attention of the barman. Soon enough, she is cradling a large glass of chardonnay, and Sherlock manages to extract himself from conversation and get a beer.

"Remember you only met me this evening," he murmurs as he sidles up to her, beer bottle looking completely out of place in his hand. She's not used to this type of casual when it comes to him - he's holding himself more loosely, and he's pretending he's enjoying himself, which is silly because no one ever _does_ enjoy themselves at these kind of things anyway.

"Your fake smile's really creepy," Molly says. She takes a sip of her wine, her eyes on Sherlock as a genuine smile comes and goes in a flash. She wonders if his internal screaming is as loud as hers.

"There are tons of people here," he says, and he scans the room briefly before returning his eyes to Molly, keeping up the charade. "You have to flirt with me," he says bluntly. "Or someone will realise we know each other."

Molly scrunches her nose, the idea of it, even of faking it, feeling utterly cringeworthy.

"I'm serious," he says, and his expression, one of interest, of good humour, is so at odds with who she knows him to be that she feels like she's trapped in a bizarre nightmare. Sherlock has good qualities, but he has never been, nor will he ever be, a pleasant social butterfly, and that's perfect because Molly's about as far removed from that type of existence as is possible. It suits her, and it suits him, so to be catapulted into the opposite of that feels like her entire world has been turned on its head.

"Well, you'll just have to show me how to do it," Molly says, meeting his gaze. A faint hint of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"No I think you can handle it." He swigs his beer, and Molly takes the opportunity to look around at the other unfortunate souls who were convinced by someone they clearly trusted that coming here tonight would be a good idea.

"You're popular," she comments. There are several pairs of eyes watching her interaction with Sherlock, some gazes fixed on her over the shoulders of other men, while others stare over the rim of their wine glasses as they drink. It's slightly unnerving, but of course Sherlock has likely been nothing less than charming throughout the evening, has probably even researched appropriate behaviour in preparation, so naturally he's getting attention. If Molly's honest, plausible competition for him is few and far between tonight.

She's sure his snugly fitted burgundy shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms, isn't hurting his chances either.

"Killer could be a woman, I suppose..." Sherlock muses.

Molly frowns. They both know this is unlikely. "Balance of probability?"

The fake smile is there again and he lets out a chuckle that sounds utterly foreign coming from him. He's keeping up appearances, but Molly knows she's not doing a very good job at playing along.

He places a hand on her upper arm and leans in to whisper into her ear. "Jealousy could be a powerful motivator - you've got five pairs of eyes fixed on you, something could get out of hand."

It's Molly's turn to laugh now, but this is genuine, and probably a bit too loud judging by the heads that turn to look at her. " _God,_ your ego is out of control," she tells Sherlock, her words escaping from behind a smile. She moves closer to him, only a small gap between them, and her words are quiet. "You really think five random women are going to all gang up and commit _murder_ together because they'd _quite like to jump you_ after speaking to you for _three minutes_? _Honestly_..."

"Fair point," he mutters. "It was only a hypothesis. But it _is_ weird isn't it? All these women watching us talk? That's weird."

"Hardly," Molly says with a roll of her eyes. "There's not much..." she searches for the right word, " _talent_ ," she says it with a grimace, "here tonight. And you're..." she trails off, not wanting to inflate his ego any further, nor admit to him that she's noticed, even though they both know she has.

"Go on..."

"You _know_ ," Molly says pointedly, but she's still smiling. "You just want me to say it."

"Maybe I do," Sherlock replies with a shrug of his shoulders. "Or maybe I'm entirely ignorant about these matters."

"I thought we were here to try and track down a murderer?" Molly reminds him. She won't be goaded, not when they have a job to do and she's spent all evening feeling grossly uncomfortable in order to help them do it.

There is another crack in his facade, and he shines through for a heartbeat, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Quite right."

"Have you seen anyone dodgy?" she asks, taking a sip of her wine and looking around the room.

"Because murderers are so often _dodgy_ , aren't they?" Sherlock replies, poking fun. He shakes his head, and has another look around the room.

"I'd class them as dodgy," Molly says. "Best avoided."

"Not if you're trying to catch them."

Molly's stomach plummets. "Sherlock..."

His rather limited patience runs out, and it's as though Molly's tone has kick started his engine, his words coming out a mile a minute, his gestures no longer controlled and low-key. " _Fine_ , if it's dodgy characters you want then this room is _teeming_ with them. Collectively there's been more porn watched in the last week than should be watched in an entire year."

"And how much porn _should_ be watched in a week?" Molly interrupts. She presses her lips together, trying hard not to look too amused.

Sherlock shoots her a look, and she knows she's in the dog house. " _Statistically -_ "

"I _don't_ want to know statistics..." Molly tells him, shaking her head. She certainly barked up the wrong tree there. "What else?"

"Well _everyone's_ lying here. I can barely concentrate because it's all just _lying, lying, lying_ everywhere." He's frustrated, and he's trying to hide it, but his jaw is set, his brow fixed in a hard line.

"But that's what people do at these things, _Scott_." She takes a sip of her wine - she very much enjoys teasing him these days. It's very easy.

" _I'm_ undercover," he says indignantly. "How am I supposed to find the dishonest person amongst all these liars? It's like searching for a needle in a...big pile of needles." His eyes go around the room again, and he pauses on random individuals. " _He's_ lying about his job - he hasn't got one, _he's_ pretending he _doesn't_ live in his mother's basement, _she's_ saying she's never been married, _he's_ talking about a car that he keeps as his screensaver but has never been within spitting distance of in his life, _she's_ pretending to be interested in whatever _he's_ talking about -"

"All right," Molly says, "I get the point." She lets out a sigh of frustration. It's not his fault, the room is far too crowded, and the people far too dishonest. Besides, it's not like anyone's _lying_ about being a murderer, so how can they pick someone out? What if they _did_ pick someone, and they chose the wrong person, and the _real_ murderer claimed another victim while they were messing around with someone entirely innocent?

"D'you think they'll stay to the end?" Molly asks. "And pick a victim then?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "You ran the toxicology tests, you know the answer to that."

Molly thinks back, her eyebrows drawing together as she collates the information in her head.

"Don't frown, it makes it look like we're not _hitting it off_."

Molly bites back a retort, but drops the frown. "None of the victims had very much alcohol in their system...and if you spent longer than half an hour here, you'd have to have several drinks to keep you sane."

"Very good," Sherlock says approvingly. "Plus everyone always remembers the stragglers. They're far too easy to identify. People who leave during the middle of the evening, not so much."

"Makes sense..." Molly thinks for a moment. "So do we need to keep an eye on the exits?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Too obvious. We just need to leave."

"Together?" Molly asks.

"I'll walk you back." Sherlock says, and he drains the last of his beer, before placing the empty bottle on one of the tall tables dotted around the hall.

"But don't you think that'll put him off?"

"Even better," Sherlock tells her. "Serial killers always think they're smarter than everyone else - so if they can fool the police into thinking someone _else_ is the killer, even just for bit, they'll get a real kick from that."

"And it means they're not being watched," Molly adds. "Which means they can..." She doesn't finish her sentence, an uneasy feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach. If their killer is here, then they're taking a big gamble. What guarantees does Sherlock have that they'll be the ones who are followed?

"Stop worrying," Sherlock says, and he puts an arm around her, pulling her a little closer to hide her troubled expression from the eyes of everyone else.

Despite Sherlock's instruction, she can't help worrying. There's too much at stake. She's had three bodies on her slab in three weeks. She does _not_ want to recognise a fourth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dangerous Game**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's a fairly mild night, and they stroll along Duke Street, past the department stores, which are closing up for the night, the last of the smartly dressed staff spilling out onto the street and lighting up cigarettes they've been waiting all evening for. The two of them walk in silence, surrounded by the diesel roar of cabs and buses, along with the honking of horns should a pedestrian venture across the road at an inappropriate moment.

"Don't ever make me sit through that again," Molly says, when, at last, they turn onto Manchester Square, and the traffic becomes a distant rumble.

"Oh come on, it wasn't _that_ bad," Sherlock says. "I've had to do much worse for other cases."

An image of a blotchy face, glazed eyes, and a grubby tracksuit, pops up in Molly's head, and she grits her teeth, not wanting to say anything that might start an argument. Sherlock must have travelled along the same line of thought, because his next words hover in his open mouth for a moment before he thinks better of them and closes his mouth with a snap.

"Actually," he says, changing tack, "I was subjected to a _very_ graphic description of what one of them wanted to do to me. It was the brunette, I think. Something about a leather mask." He frowns, and Molly can feel a smile creep through.

"Didn't tickle your fancy?" she asks, in her most innocent tone.

Sherlock gives her a withering look. "I'll take the serial killer any day, thank you."

Molly is fairly sure that the mask was probably just the tip of the iceberg, but at the same time, Sherlock would take a serial killer over pretty much anything else. For him, serial killers are the gifts that keep on giving. Molly doesn't see it in quite the same way.

"Dangerous game, dating." Sherlock says, interrupting her train of thought.

"Tell me about it," Molly replies. "I still can't believe I went to _Nando's_ with...you know." She finds it hard to say the name, to admit to it, to remind herself that she was used as a pawn in his game. Throwing the corpse from the window at Bart's had certainly been a bittersweet way of rebelling against him.

"You dumped him though," Sherlock reminds her. It's another nugget of information that she's surprised he has stored away. He puts an arm around her shoulders and she moves nearer to him, the familiar scent of his aftershave something of a comfort.

"Imagine going to one of those things though," Molly says. "And having to speak to all those guys, force all that conversation, and then after all that, you get murdered."

"Well take note," Sherlock says, his voice stern. "Avoid relationships, avoid murder. Simple stuff."

"Is that how you're still alive?" She's teasing again, but his quiet exhalation of amusement lets her know he doesn't mind.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock says, as they turn left, a busy road just visible up ahead, traffic whizzing by. "Although," he continues thoughtfully, "there is a lot of truth to that. Female victim, always go to the husband or boyfriend first. There's rarely a need to look much further."

"So even if you don't get murdered by a serial killer after speed dating, you'll probably end up getting murdered by the person you fall in love with. That's cheerful!"

"Love is dead, Molly. Sorry you didn't get the memo." He's teasing now, but there's an uncomfortable truth in what he's saying.

"Well maybe for us, after everything we've seen it do." Molly's seen all sorts on her slab, but there are themes that run through death, and that thread is one of the strongest.

"No, I shouldn't think it is," Sherlock says after a moment. "Not really."

"That's optimistic, for _you_." Molly looks up at him to gauge his mood, but it's one she doesn't see often. His frantic brainwork is submersed beneath deep thought, leaving him placid.

Sherlock exhales, and his words are softer now. "Sometimes it works. Look at John and Mary. Or my parents."

Molly hums in agreement. Maybe it's not all doom and gloom and murder, not really.

"And apparently the most successful relationships stem from friendship so actually, it's stupid for people to look for somebody to date, they should just..." Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence, and Molly suspects he's reached the limit of his romantic advice.

"Go through their friends until they find _the one_?" Molly laughs.

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugs. "I'm hardly the expert on successful relationships. You'll have to ask someone else."

Molly lets the subject drop, and soon enough, they arrive at the flat, her nerves becoming apparent as she fumbles with the door keys in her pocket. Sherlock pulls her into a firm and reassuring hug, his voice low in her ear.

"Remember to keep the lights out," he speaks quickly, trying to ensure the hug doesn't fall into the 'suspiciously long' category. "And if you hear anything unusual, text me. Lestrade's parked up, I'll be watching, and if our man shows up, we'll get him before he's through the door."

"Okay," Molly breathes, though his assurances don't settle her. She knows he would never let anything happen to her, but even so, being dangled as serial killer bait is not her favourite way to spend an evening. She tries not to search for any suspicious characters over his shoulder, knows it would spoil their play, but too soon, Sherlock releases her, kisses her on the cheek, and waits while she unlocks the front door.

"Goodnight," he says, as Molly steps inside. "Sleep tight."

Molly gives him a brave smile, and closes the front door. She rests her forehead against it, trying to summon the courage for what she is about to do. It's silly really, because all she needs to do is go upstairs and wait.

Steeling herself, she climbs the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. It's not easy to gauge in the unlit hallway, and the loud creak when she hits the seventh step startles her. She continues up to the landing, and then opens the door to the flat, steps inside, and closes it behind her.

In darkness, everything is unfamiliar, and she weaves her way to the window, looking out at the street below, her ears straining in the silence to pick up any unusual noises, but there's nothing. She recognises the silver BMW parked on the far side of the street, and it's out of place amongst the other resident's cars which she's come to recognise, after all this time.

Molly removes her bag from her shoulder, and places it down on the table, then shrugs her coat off, fumbling slightly as she feels for the back of a chair to hang it from. She's warm, and perhaps it's the wine, but she thinks that her nerves may have a certain amount of accountability. She touches her face to find it's damp with sweat, and so she heads to the bathroom to splash herself with cool water and pull herself together.

Upon opening the bathroom door, the cool breeze she encounters is nothing short of beautiful. It's pitch black out the back of the flat, but she can just about see the pale bottom of the sash window, halfway open. She feels her way over to the sink, running her fingers along the tiles, and reaches out for the cold tap. Her hand brushes against the glass containing Sherlock's toothbrush, and she moves it away from the edge of the basin, just in case her clumsiness gets the better of her.

There is a rustle of a shower curtain, and Molly's breath leaves her all at once as a hand clamps over her mouth and nose, rough fingertips digging into her flesh, holding her fast against a stocky body.

A thick arm is locked around her middle, and she tries to kick out at her attacker's feet, stamp on his toes, or inflict any kind of harm she can, but all she finds underfoot is linoleum flooring.

A thumb works its way into her mouth, pressing down hard on the soft part under her tongue, and Molly cries out in agony. She tries to scream, tries to call for Sherlock, but it's a blinding pain and she can't get the words out. She can't even bite down, no matter how hard she tries, because everything is blinding white and her body simply isn't working. Tears are streaming down her face as she struggles, wriggling against the unyielding grip of her attacker.

"This your place is it? Very nice it is too," a voice growls into her ear. It sounds familiar, but she can't quite place it. She can feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, and she struggles, trying in vain to throw him off of her. He shifts one hand to her throat, giving her right arm a little room for movement as he squeezes, her windpipe constricting. She reaches across to the sink, and her fingers brush against the glass.

She struggles again, but everything feels funny, and she knows she only has one chance, as darkness begins to consume her, and after a few endless seconds, she manages to clasp her fingers around the glass.

She lifts it over her head, and brings it down as hard as she can on the head of her attacker. It shatters in her hand and he cries out, throwing Molly down onto the tiles. She gulps in air, lungs heaving, her hand wet with blood, while her attacker stumbles, his balance knocked off kilter from Molly's retaliation. She screams Sherlock's name at the top of her lungs, but before she gets past the first syllable, the door of the bathroom is kicked open, and the hem of his coat flutters past her.

"Sherlock!" Greg is there too, and the now illuminated hallway light spills into the bathroom, just in time for Molly to see Tony, who rents with friends in Archway, double over as Sherlock lands a blow to his ribs.

"Sherlock stop!" Greg barges into the bathroom - which was never designed for four people and a brawl - and Sherlock slams Tony into the wall, paying absolutely no attention to anything else, least of all Greg.

Tony smashes his heel into the inside of Sherlock's knee, which is enough for him to buckle, letting go of Tony's shirt collar, but recovering quickly enough to shove Tony with all his might.

Everything slows down.

Tony flies backwards, the wood of the window frame splintering from the impact, glass exploding out into the yard below. Tony reaches out, trying to grab onto thin air, his eyes wide, his head covered in scarlet, and everyone knows what is about to happen, but the only person who could prevent it is Sherlock, and he looks on coldly as Tony falls through the window, and disappears from sight.

There is a crash below, and the sound of wheelie bins toppling, then silence.

"Always the window," Greg breathes. "Always the _bloody window_." He shakes his exasperatedly, but then his eyes land on Molly, and his expression changes, his exasperation melting into concern. "Are you all right?"

"Of course she's not all _right_ ," Sherlock snaps, shrugging off his coat and tossing it into the bath. He steps over to Molly, glass crunching underfoot, his left leg wobbly from his afflicted knee. He sits down beside her, wincing as he crouches, and puts his arms around her, his right hand cradling her head as she sinks against his chest.

She's in shock, and she doesn't know what, to do, but then she realises that she can still taste the thumb in her mouth, and she bursts into tears, her sobs raw as they tear through her throat. Everything hurts, and she tries to breathe deeply but she can't, because she just _can't stop_ crying, and Sherlock holds her close, his cheek resting against the top of her head.

She hears Greg leave, presumably to arrest Tony and call an ambulance, but Sherlock doesn't move. He stays with her, and she can hear his heartbeat, steady, and calm, and it helps to settle her.

"I'm so sorry." His voice cracks as he says it, and he presses a kiss to the top of Molly's head. "I'm so _so_ sorry." He says it over and over, his soft voice filling the gaps as Molly's sobs subside. "What _stupid_ idea." She hears the _thunk_ as he bangs his head against the door of the airing cupboard, but her throat is too raw for her to say anything.

Molly looks up at Sherlock, and his eyes are red around the edges, his face far paler than usual.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and he rests his forehead against hers, his fingers curling in her hair. "It wasn't supposed to go like this."

"I know," Molly croaks. It feels as though she's having to push the words out, and it hurts to speak, so she doesn't say anything else.

"Come on," Sherlock says, and he sniffs, wiping roughly at his face before he extricates himself from Molly and gets to his feet. "Let's sort that hand out." He helps her up, and guides her out of the bathroom, leading the way down the hall and into the kitchen. He switches on the lights, and pulls out a chair for Molly, easing her down into it. He limps over to one of the cupboards, pulling out a first aid kit that she has seen more times than she cares to remember, throughout various summonings to 221B at all sorts of hours.

Sherlock places the first aid kit on the table, his actions far more gentle than is normal for him. Her heart lifts a little at the thought, as it always does on those rare occasions when he makes the effort to be considerate.

He heads back into the lounge, while sirens sound in the distance, getting louder by the second, and he unplugs his magnifying lamp, bringing it back over to the kitchen table. He plugs it in, takes a seat, then flicks the switch and angles the light so he can get a good look at Molly's shredded palm.

His touch is delicate as he takes her hand in his and cleans the cuts. When he's finished, he sterilises his tweezers and angles her hand so he can pick out the small gritty pieces of glass trapped in the wounds. Molly concentrates on his face, his brow creased, lips slightly parted, completely focused on the task at hand. It doesn't stop her hand from hurting, but it helps.

Her stomach churns as he threads the needle, and just as he's about to sew the first stitch, Greg comes back up the stairs and into the flat, a paramedic in tow. Molly's shoulders sag as she exhales, and Sherlock lowers the needle, turning his head to look across to Greg.

"What?"

"I've got a paramedic," Greg says, gesturing to the woman next to him. "Thought Molly might want to be checked over."

"She's a doctor - "

"Yeah, a doctor who's just been _attacked_ ," Greg interrupts. "She needs -"

"To stay here, not be taken to hospital to wait around amongst _other people_." He says the last two words with a level of contempt which raises a slight smile from Molly. It vanishes as soon as the needle pierces her skin, and Sherlock begins sewing her stitches.

"Are you all right?" Greg asks, his eyes on Molly, voice softer now.

"I will be," she replies, and she sinks her teeth into her lower lip as Sherlock pushes the needle through her skin again. The paramedic looks towards Greg, who nods in the direction of the door, and she readjusts the strap of her kit bag on her shoulder, and departs.

"I can get someone to take you home," Greg offers. "Have a couple of officers stay with you tonight to make sure you're okay."

"She can stay here." Sherlock answers before Molly can open her mouth. "Or if she wants to go home, I'll go with her."

Greg raises an eyebrow and his eyes meet Molly's. She gives him the smallest of nods.

"All right," he says, and he tiredly runs a hand over his hair. "I'll need to get a statement from you tomorrow, but you rest up tonight. If you need anything, give me a call."

"What could she possibly need -"

"Thanks Greg."

The briefest of smiles flashes across Greg's lips, and he trudges out of the living room and down the stairs, his steps heavy and tired.

Molly doesn't say anything to Sherlock, fully aware that his bad mood is down to what he sees as a failure. The fact that Tony was able to get into the flat without Sherlock's knowledge is grating for him, even more so given that Tony was able to attack her. He's furious with himself, and even though Molly knows it would be better to stay quiet until he's calmed down, she asks the question that is bugging her, and, is surely bugging him too.

"How did he get in?"

Sherlock's hands still, halfway through sewing the final stitch. It's a few moments before he quietly says, "I don't know. I'm sorry."

"He must have gone round the back," Molly says. Probably through the bathroom window, which she _noticed_ , she stupidly _noticed_ , but didn't think anything of it. Tony crept round the back while Sherlock and Greg were staked out round the front, waiting for him to rock up to the front door.

"Of course he went round the back," Sherlock replies, his tone measured as he starts sewing again, finishing up the final stitch. "But he would have had to go to the end of the street, over the gardens, he would have needed to know which _house_. If he'd looked you up he would have gone to your flat, not mine."

"Maybe he recognised you," Molly suggests, as Sherlock carefully bandages her hand. "Maybe, when he saw me with you, he figured out -"

"But if he _knows of me_ , if he knows what I do, what my reputation is, why chance it? It doesn't make _sense_." He tosses the remaining gauze back into the first aid kit and closes the lid with a snap, before he stands up, pacing around the kitchen. "Surely he knew he'd be caught? I mean some serial killers, no _a lot_ of serial killers _do_ want to get caught eventually but he'd only had three victims so far, it was too soon..."

Molly decides not to comment on 'only three'. "Maybe he thought he was smarter than you?"

Sherlock stops pacing and looks across to Molly, his hands on his hips, eyebrows drawn together in frown. "Well that was stupid."

"He did get in without you seeing," Molly points out. "He can't have been that stupid."

He exhales, and looks down at the ground. She knows he won't let it go any time soon, that it will bug him until he finds a concrete solution. "I'm sorry," he says, for what she is certain must be the hundredth time.

Molly looks down at her hands, her front teeth tugging at the inside of her lower lip. "What made you come inside?" she asks. She looks up at Sherlock once more, her chest swirling as she tries to put together the pieces of the evening. "I thought you and Greg were going to watch from outside in case he came along?"

"I changed my mind," Sherlock says. "Using you as bait was a _stupid_ idea." He kicks the leg of the table in frustration and the numerous conical flasks and racks full of test tubes rattle ominously. "I heard the glass smash when I opened the front door," he adds. "Lestrade must have seen me run up and so he followed."

"Good job you changed your mind." Molly laughs, but the sound is hollow, far from genuine, and it hurts her throat.

"I should _never_ have used you as bait." Sherlock says, shaking his head before he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, giving it a quick ruffle at the back before he moves around the kitchen table and grabs the kettle from the stand. He moves to the sink and begins to fill it with water.

"Well at least you've got him, so it did serve a purpose."

Sherlock wrenches the tap off and the water stops abruptly. He doesn't look towards her, but instead focuses on the draining board. "It wasn't worth putting your safety at risk. It would _never_ be worth that, Molly. _Never_."

It's his final word on the matter, and Molly sits quietly while he puts the kettle on to boil and starts preparing some tea. She watches him as he works; the sight of him making tea is a rare treat, and he even manages to find a tin of biscuits to dump on the table. He spoons some sugar into her mug, and she finds that there's something very pleasing about the fact that he remembers exactly how she takes her tea - one and a bit sugars if it's a big mug. After the evening's events, a big mug is certainly called for.

They sip their tea quietly, and it warms Molly up from the inside out. Gradually she starts to feel human again, even though her mouth is sore, her throat is bruised, and her hand smarts continually.

It could have been much worse, but she supposes that's not the point.

"He asked me where I lived," Molly says at last, the full weight of her conversation with Tony hitting her. "I can't believe I didn't notice..."

" _What_?"

"He asked if I was local...told me he lived with mates and I told him, I _told him_ I had my own place..." She trails off, and lowers her head into her hands because she was so _foolish_ , firstly to tell him and secondly to not _realise_ what he was doing.

"You've had that conversation a thousand times before though," Sherlock says, and for some reason he is able to forgive her stupidity, but not his own. "You've complained about it enough times."

She smiles, because he has heard her complain endlessly, during late night lab sessions, about passing comments from colleagues about her 'good fortune'. She'd assumed it was all going in one ear and out the other, never stopping long enough for him to even need to delete it.

Silence settles again, and Molly hates it, because everything just keeps whirring through her mind, vivid flashes of memory piercing her consciousness without mercy.

"You can stay in my room tonight," Sherlock says eventually, when they're down to the dregs and the biscuits are getting stale. Molly gives a nod of agreement, and Sherlock frowns into the bottom of his cup. "I'll stay with you." He says it quickly, as though he wants to get the words out as soon as possible so he can get them over and done with.

"Thank you."

He lends her a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and she has to pull the drawstrings tight on to stop them from falling down. Sherlock's clothes are cosy, and they smell of him, and that in itself is a good distraction when she is revisited by the taste of _his_ hand or the beer-tainted scent of _his_ breath.

When he gets in to bed, he lies close to her, and after what Molly considers to be a good forty-five seconds of hesitation, he puts one arm around her and pulls her a little closer. His chest is warm against her back and she's glad, she's so _so_ glad, because she needs, more than anything else, to have that little bit of contact to settle her down, to reassure her, and to make her feel safe. He must know it, must have thought it through to try and figure out how he should behave, and his guilt must have shoved him in this direction.

"Are you all right?" she asks. Her question hangs in the air, low lit by the lamp that Sherlock has left on, neither of them favouring the dark tonight. After a pause, in which she feels his rib cage swell, he lets his answer out in a breath.

"Yeah." And then, "Are you?"

"Yeah."

They're both lying.

She finds his hand and laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze of reassurance. He presses a kiss against her hair in response, and she feels a little more tension eke out of her.

It doesn't matter that they're not all right. It doesn't matter at all. Molly knows, without a doubt, that they will be. They always are, in the end.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
